The next day‚ Jorge went to the Ministry for the first time in some weeks. He did not stay long. The street and the presence of both acquaintances and strangers‚ were a torment to him; it seemed to him that everyone knew; he saw malign intent in the most innocent looks‚ and an ironic squeeze of condolence in the sincerest handshakes; he suspected every carriage that passed of being the very carriage that had borne her to the rendezvous‚ and every house seemed to him to bear the odious façade of ‘Paradise’. He returned home in a sombre‚ wretched mood‚ feeling that his life was ruined. And as he walked down the corridor‚ he heard Luiza singing the ‘Mandolinata’‚ just as she used to!
She was getting dressed.
‘How are you?’ he asked‚ placing his walking stick in one corner.
‘I’m fine. I feel much better today. Still a little weak‚ but…’
Jorge took a few steps about the room‚ not saying a word.
‘What about you?’ she asked.
‘Not too bad‚’ he said‚ but so disconsolately that Luiza‚ her hair still loose‚ put down her comb‚ went over to him and placed her hands fondly on his shoulders.
‘What’s wrong? I know there’s something wrong. You’ve been behaving oddly for days now! You’re not your usual self. Sometimes you’ve a look on your face like a condemned man’s. What is it? Tell me.’
Her eyes sought his‚ but he looked uneasily away.
She put her arms about him. She insisted‚ she wanted him to tell ‘his little wife’ everything.
‘Tell me. What’s wrong?’
He looked at her for a long time‚ then‚ suddenly‚ with violent resolve‚ said:
‘All right‚ I’ll tell you. You’re better now‚ so you can stand it … Luiza‚ I’ve been in hell these last two weeks. I can’t bear it any longer.You really are better‚ aren’t you? All right‚ then‚ what is the meaning of this? Tell me the truth!’
And he held out Bazilio’s letter.
‘What’s this?’ she said‚ turning terribly pale. The folded piece of paper trembled in her hand.
She opened it slowly‚ saw Bazilio’s handwriting and realised at a glance what it meant. She stared at Jorge for a moment‚ wild-eyed‚ reached out her arms‚ unable to speak‚ raised her hands to her head with the shocked gesture of someone who has been wounded‚ then‚ swaying on her feet‚ she uttered a hoarse cry‚ dropped to her knees and lay prostrate on the carpet.
Jorge cried out. The servants came running. They laid her on the bed. Jorge told Joana to call Sebastião‚ and then he stood‚ as if turned to stone‚ by her bed‚ looking at her‚ while Mariana fumbled with her mistress’s corsets.
Sebastião came at once. Fortunately‚ they had some ether which they gave to her to smell; the moment she slowly opened her eyes‚ Jorge rushed to her side.
‘Luiza‚ listen‚ speak to me! It will be all right. Just speak to me. Tell me‚ are you all right?
When she heard his voice‚ she fainted again. Her body was shaken by convulsive movements. Sebastião ran to fetch Julião.
Luiza seemed to be sleeping now‚ motionless‚ white as wax‚ her hands resting on the coverlet; and two slow tears were running down her cheeks.
A carriage stopped outside. Julião rushed breathlessly in.
‘She became ill all of a sudden. You can see‚ Julião‚ she’s really bad!’ said Jorge.
They gave her more ether to inhale; she came round again. Julião spoke to her and took her pulse.
‘No‚ no‚ no one!’ she murmured‚ withdrawing her hand. She said again‚ impatiently this time: ‘No‚ go away‚ I don’t want …’ Her tears redoubled. And as they were leaving the room so as not to antagonise her further‚ they heard her call out: ‘Jorge!’
He knelt by the bed‚ talking to her‚ his lips close to her face:
‘Are you all right? Look‚ we won’t speak about such things ever again. It’s over. Only‚ please‚ don’t be ill. I love you‚ I swear I do … I don’t care what happened before. I don’t even want to know.’
And when she made to speak‚ he placed his hand over her mouth:
‘No‚ no‚ I don’t want to hear. I just want you to get well and not to suffer anymore. Tell me you’re all right! You are‚ aren’t you? Tomorrow we’ll go to the country for a while‚ and forget all about it. It was just something that happened…’
In a faint voice she said only:
‘Oh‚ Jorge! Jorge!’
‘I know … But now you’re going to be happy again … Where are you hurting?’
‘Here‚’ she said‚ raising her hands to her head. ‘It hurts me so!’
He got up to summon Julião‚ but she stopped him and drew him to her; devouring him with eyes that were once more bright with fever‚ she held up her face and lips to him. He gave her a long‚ meaning kiss‚ full of forgiveness.
‘Oh‚ my poor head!’ she cried.
Her temples were pounding‚ and her face was red‚ dry and burning hot.
She had often suffered from migraines in the past‚ Julião reassured them; until he returned‚ he recommended complete rest and the application of mustard compresses to her feet.
Assailed by presentiments and fears‚ Jorge remained by her bedside‚ silent‚ apart from the occasional sigh.
It was four o’clock by then; a fine‚ misty drizzle was falling; the bedroom was filled with a gloomy light.
‘It’s nothing serious‚’ Sebastião said.
Luiza was tossing and turning in bed‚ clutching her head in her hands‚ tortured by the growing pain and by a terrible thirst.
Mariana had just tiptoed in to tidy the room‚ slightly in awe of that house in which she had seen only misfortune and illness; but even the subtle sound of her footsteps was an agony to Luiza‚ like hammerblows on her skull.
Julião was soon back; he could tell by her appearance‚ as soon as he came into the room‚ that her condition was grave. He lit a match and held it close to her face; the light made her scream out as if a cold iron blade had pierced her head.
There was a metallic glint in her dilated eyes. She lay very still because even the slightest movement sent lacerating pains down her neck. Very occasionally‚ she would smile at Jorge with a look of serene‚ silent suffering.
Julião immediately had three pillows placed on the bed‚ to keep her head up. Outside‚ a damp twilight was falling. They tiptoed cautiously about; they even took the clock off the wall‚ to remove its monotonous tick-tock. She began to moan wearily and to turn over suddenly in bed‚ which caused her to cry out in agony; or else she would lie motionless‚ continually‚ anxiously sighing. They had wrapped her legs in a long compress now‚ but she could not feel it. Around nine o’clock‚ delirium set in; her tongue became hard and white‚ like a piece of dirty plaster.
Julião immediately applied cold compresses to her head‚ but the delirium only worsened.
Now her voice was a slurred murmur‚ a vague‚ drowsy whisper‚ in which the names of Leopoldina‚ Jorge and Bazilio came and went incessantly; she would writhe about and tear at her nightdress with her hands; and as her body arched‚ her eyes rolled back‚ like large silvery globes from which the pupils had vanished.
She grew quieter; she giggled gently‚ foolishly; she caressed the sheet‚ slowly‚ coaxingly‚ as if taking great pleasure in something; then she began to breathe anxiously‚ her face contorted in fear‚ she tried to hide herself in the pillows‚ in the mattress‚ fleeing terrifying figures; she would then clutch her head frantically‚ begging them to open it up for her‚ because it was full of stones‚ begging them to have pity on her‚ and tears streamed down her face. She could not feel the compresses; so they exposed her bare feet to the steam from boiling‚ mustard- filled water; a sour smell suffused the room. Jorge said all kinds of consoling‚ supplicatory words to her; he pleaded with her to be still‚ to recognise him; but suddenly she grew desperate‚ she demanded the letter‚ she cursed Juliana‚ or else she spoke words of love or listed sums of money … Jorge was afraid that her delirium would reveal everything to Julião and to the servants; beads of sweat stood out on his forehead‚ and when‚ for a moment‚ she imagined herself once more in ‘Paradise’ and‚ in her adulterous ecstasy‚ called out Bazilio’s name‚ asked for champagne and uttered all manner of lewd remarks‚ Jorge‚ half-mad‚ fled the bedroom and went into the dark drawing room‚ where he flung himself down on the divan‚ sobbing‚ tearing at his own hair‚ and cursing God.
‘Is she in danger?’ Sebastião asked Julião.
‘She is‚’ said Julião. ‘If she could at least feel the compresses‚ but with these wretched brain fevers…’
They stopped talking when they saw Jorge come back into the room‚ his face blotchy‚ his hair dishevelled.
Julião took his arm and led him out of the room.
‘Listen‚ Jorge‚ we’re going to have to cut off her hair and shave her head.’
Jorge stared at him stupidly:
‘Her hair?’ Then grasping Julião’s arms‚ he said: ‘No‚ Julião‚ no. There must be something else you can do. I’m sure you know what you’re doing‚ but not her hair. No‚ not that‚ for God’s sake! She’s not in any danger‚ so why do it?’
But that mass of hair was a real nuisance‚ it impeded the action of the water!
‘If necessary‚ you can do it tomorrow. Tomorrow! Wait until then…. Please‚ Julião‚ please.’
Julião reluctantly agreed. He had them apply constant cold compresses‚ and since Mariana‚ shaking and clumsy‚ only succeeded in soaking the pillow‚ it was Sebastião who sat at the head of the bed all night‚ endlessly squeezing slow drops of cool water onto the compresses with a sponge; they put jugs of water out on the drawing-room balcony to keep the water icy cold. In the early hours‚ her delirium eased a little. But there was a wild look in her bloodshot eyes; her pupils were like two black dots.
Jorge was sitting at the foot of the bed‚ his head in his hands‚ looking at her; he vaguely remembered other nights when she had been ill‚ when she had had pneumonia and had recovered! She had emerged from that even prettier‚ with a slight pallor that gave her face a still sweeter expression! They would go to the countryside when she was convalescing; they would rent a cottage; he would catch the omnibus back from work and‚ in the soft evenings‚ he would see her from afar‚ in her light- coloured dress‚ standing on the road waiting for him … But then she gave a moan and he looked up‚ startled; and she did not look like the same woman; it was as if she were dissolving‚ disappearing in the feverish air that was filling the bedroom‚ in the morbid silence of the night‚ and in the smell of mustard. He would utter a sob and return to his immobile state.
Upstairs‚ Joana was praying. The candles were burning out with a long‚ thin flame.
Then a hazy brightness began to etch the shape of the window frames onto the transparent white drapes. It was growing light. Jorge got up and looked out onto the street. The rain had stopped; the street was drying off. The air was the colour of pale steel. Everything was sleeping; only a towel‚ left outside the Azevedos’ window‚ flapped silently in the cold wind.
When Jorge went back into the bedroom‚ Luiza was speaking in a barely audible voice; she could almost feel the compresses‚ but the pain in her head was still there. She grew agitated again and‚ shortly afterwards‚ the delirium returned. Julião decided that they would have to shave her head.
Sebastião went to wake the barber in Rua da Escola‚ who came immediately‚ looking half-frozen‚ the collar of his jacket turned up‚ his teeth chattering; then with hands made soft by daily contact with greasy pomades‚ he slowly began removing his razors and scissors from a leather bag.
Jorge took refuge in the drawing room; it seemed to him that great mutilated chunks of his happiness were falling to the floor along with those lovely locks being scissored to destruction; and‚ head in hands‚ he remembered certain ways in which she had worn her hair‚ nights on which her hair had become tousled during the joys of passion‚ the different colours that her hair took on in the light … He went back into the room‚ drawn irresistibly; there was the sharp‚ metallic sound of the scissors; on the table‚ in a soap dish‚ was an old shaving brush and a lot of foam. He called softly to Sebastião:
‘Tell him to hurry up! It’s killing me! It’s unbearable. Tell him to be quick!’
He went into the dining room and wandered about the house; the cold morning was growing brighter now; a wind had got up and was carrying off with it scraps of greyish cloud.
When he returned to the bedroom‚ the barber was putting away his razors with the same soft slowness; and picking up his hat‚ he tiptoed out‚ murmuring in a funereal tone:
‘I do hope she gets better. God will make sure it’s nothing serious.’
Her delirium did indeed cease within the hour‚ and Luiza fell into a restless sleep‚ broken only by faint moans‚ which‚ on her lips‚ sounded like the secret lament of defeated life.
Jorge said to Sebastião then that he wanted to call in Dr Caminha. He was the old doctor who had treated his mother and had cured Luiza of pneumonia in the second year of their marriage. Jorge retained a grateful admiration for that ancient reputation; and now his hopes again turned eagerly to him‚ longing for his presence as if for the appearance of a saint.
Julião agreed at once. He was even glad. Sebastião raced down the stairs to go to Dr Caminha’s house.
Luiza‚ who had emerged for a moment from her torpor‚ heard them talking softly. Her feeble voice called out for Jorge:
‘They’ve cut off my hair‚’ she murmured sadly.
‘It’s to make you better‚’ Jorge told her‚ almost as drained of life as she was. ‘It will soon grow again. It will grow back stronger.’
She did not reply; two silent tears fell from the corners of her eyes.
That must have been her last sensation‚ for she lapsed thereafter into a comatose stillness‚ moaning occasionally with the same sad weariness‚ her head moving slowly and gently back and forth on the pillow; her skin grew paler‚ like a pane of glass behind which a light is gradually burning out; and she no longer noticed the noises from the street‚ as if they came from a long way away and were swathed in cotton wool.
At midday‚ Dona Felicidade appeared. She was horrified to see Luiza looking so ill; she had come to take her to the church of the Incarnation‚ perhaps to the shops! She immediately took off her hat and set to work; she had the room sorted out‚ the basins and old compresses removed and the bed tidied‚ ‘because there is nothing worse for a patient than disorder in the bedroom’. And she very bravely attempted to cheer Jorge up.
A carriage stopped outside the house. It was Dr Caminha‚ at last! He entered‚ well muffled up in his green and black check scarf‚ complaining loudly of the cold‚ then‚ slowly removing his woollen gloves‚ which he placed neatly inside his hat‚ he walked in stately fashion into the bedroom‚ smoothing his grey locks which he now wore brushed close to his head.
Julião and he remained alone in the bedroom.
Next door‚ the others waited in silence‚ near Jorge‚ whose face was as pale as wax‚ his eyes as red as coals.
‘We’re going to try applying a mustard plaster to the back of her neck‚’ Julião told them.
Jorge was gazing with anxious eyes at Dr Caminha‚ who was calmly drawing on his woollen gloves again‚ saying:
‘We’ll see how that works. She’s not at all well‚ but I’ve seen worse. I’ll be back‚ my friend‚ I’ll be back.’
The plaster proved useless. White and immobile‚ her face contorted‚ and the nerves in her face twitching as if afflicted by fleeting vibrations‚ she could not even feel it.
‘She’s lost‚’ Julião said softly to Sebastião.
Dona Felicidade looked terrified and immediately made mention of the sacraments.
‘What ever for?’ growled Julião impatiently.
Dona Felicidade declared that she‚ at least‚ had scruples‚ that it was a mortal sin; and calling Jorge over to the window‚ she said tremulously:
‘Jorge‚ don’t be alarmed‚ but shouldn’t we be thinking about the sacraments…’
He murmured as if astonished:
‘The sacraments!’
Julião broke in almost angrily:
‘Look‚ forget all this nonsense about sacraments! What’s the point. She can’t hear‚ she can’t understand‚ she can’t feel. We should just apply another mustard plaster or cupping glasses perhaps‚ that’s what she needs. Those are what I call sacraments!’
Shocked and shaken‚ Dona Felicidade began to cry. They were forgetting God and the only remedy lay now in God’s hands‚ she was saying‚ loudly blowing her nose.
‘What has God ever done for me!’ exclaimed Jorge‚ emerging from his torpor. Then clapping his hands together as if in disgust at some injustice: ‘I mean what did I ever do to deserve this? What did I do?’
Julião had ordered another mustard plaster. There was a frenzy of movement in the house now. Joana‚ her eyes red with crying‚ would enter bearing some soup that no one had asked for. Mariana was to be found in a corner of the house somewhere‚ sobbing. Dona Felicidade came and went‚ taking refuge in the drawing room to pray‚ making promises to the Virgin‚ and saying that they really should call in Dr Barbosa or Dr Barral.
Luiza meanwhile did not move; a deathly pallor gave her features a stiff‚ sunken look.
Julião‚ exhausted‚ asked for a glass of wine and a piece of bread. They remembered then that they had not eaten since the night before and so they all trooped into the dining room‚ where Joana‚ still bathed in tears‚ served them soup and eggs. But she couldn’t find the spoons or the napkins; she mumbled a few prayers and apologised; Jorge‚ his face tense‚ his eyes puffy‚ sat staring at the table edge‚ making folds in the table cloth.
After a moment‚ he very slowly put down his spoon and went into the bedroom. Mariana was sitting at the foot of the bed; Jorge told her to go and serve the others; and as soon as she had left‚ he fell to his knees‚ took one of Luiza’s hands in his and called to her softly‚ then more loudly:
‘Listen to me. Listen‚ for God’s sake‚ listen. Don’t just lie there like this‚ try to get better. Don’t leave me all alone in the world! I have no one else! Forgive me! Say that you do. At least make some sign that you do. Oh‚ dear God‚ she can’t hear me!’
And he studied her anxiously. She did not move.
He then raised up his arms in a gesture of mad despair.
‘You know I believe in you‚ God. Save her! Save her!’ And he lifted up his soul to the heavens: ‘Hear me‚ O God! Listen to me! Be kind!’
He looked around him‚ expecting a movement‚ a voice‚ a chance event‚ a miracle! But everything seemed to him even more immobile. Her livid cheeks grew more sunken; the scarf around her head had come loose‚ revealing her slightly yellow shaven head. Fearfully‚ hesitantly‚ he placed his hand on her head; she felt cold! He smothered a cry and ran out of the room‚ only to meet Dr Caminha‚ who was just coming in‚ slowly pulling off his gloves.
‘Doctor‚ she’s dead! Look! She can’t talk‚ she’s cold…’
‘Now‚ now‚’ said the doctor. ‘Remember‚ no noise!’
He took Luiza’s pulse and felt it slipping away beneath his fingers‚ like the dwindling vibrations of a plucked string.
Julião came in immediately afterwards. And he agreed with Dr Caminha that the cupping glasses were useless.
‘She can’t feel them anymore‚’ said the doctor‚ brushing tobacco from his fingers.
‘What if we gave her a glass of cognac?’ Julião said suddenly. And seeing the look of horror on the doctor’s face‚ he added: ‘The symptoms of a coma do not necessarily mean that the brain is in disarray; it might just be inaction due to an exhausted nervous system. If death is inevitable‚ then we lose nothing; if it is just a depression of the nervous system‚ we might save her…’
Dr Caminha was shaking his head incredulously‚ open- mouthed.
‘Theories!’ he muttered.
‘In English hospitals …’ began Julião.
Dr Caminha shrugged scornfully.
‘But if you had read….‚’ insisted Julião.
‘I read nothing now‚’ said Dr Caminha firmly. ‘I have read too much. The books are the ones that are sick.’ Then‚ bowing‚ he said ironically: ‘But if my talented colleague wishes to try…’
‘Bring me a glass of cognac or brandy!’ Julião said from the door.
And Dr Caminha sat down comfortably in a chair to savour the sight of his ‘talented colleague’ failing.
They lifted Luiza up; Julião made her swallow the cognac; when they laid her down again‚ she remained in exactly the same state of comatose immobility; Dr Caminha took out his watch‚ checked the time and waited; there was an anxious silence; finally‚ the doctor got up‚ felt her pulse and noted the growing coldness in her extremities; and going silently over to pick up his hat‚ he began to put on his gloves again.
Jorge went with him to the door.
‘Doctor …’ he said‚ grabbing hold of his arm with unnecessary violence.
‘We’ve done all we can‚’ said the old man with a shrug.
Jorge stood dumbly on the landing‚ watching him go down the stairs. The doctor’s slow steps on the stairs fell upon his heart like a ghastly percussion. He leaned over the banister and called to him softly. The doctor stopped and looked up. Jorge reached out his hands to him in humble supplication:
‘There’s no more to be done‚ then?’
The doctor made a vague gesture‚ pointing heavenwards.
Jorge went back in‚ supporting himself against the walls as he did so. He went into the bedroom and fell on his knees at the foot of the bed‚ and there he stayed‚ his head in his hands‚ sobbing softly and continuously.
Luiza was dying: her lovely arms‚ the arms she used to stroke as she stood before the mirror‚ were now paralysed; her eyes‚ in which passion had ignited flames and which had once filled with tears out of sheer voluptuous pleasure‚ were growing dim as if beneath a light layer of very fine dust.
Dona Felicidade and Mariana had lit a small lamp beneath an engraving of Our Lady of Sorrows and were kneeling‚ praying.
The sad evening was coming on and seemed to bring with it a funereal silence.
The doorbell rang discreetly and‚ a few moments later‚ the figure of Councillor Acácio appeared. Dona Felicidade got up at once‚ and seeing her tears‚ the Councillor said gravely:
‘I have come to do my duty and help you all through this difficult time.’
He explained that he had happened to meet good Dr Caminha‚ who had told him ‘the fateful news’! Out of discretion‚ however‚ he did not wish to enter the bedroom. He sat down on a chair‚ mournfully placed one elbow on his knee and rested his head on his hand‚ then said quietly to Dona Felicidade:
‘Continue with your prayers. God’s designs are unfathomable.’
In the bedroom‚ Julião had been taking Luiza’s pulse; he glanced at Sebastião and made the gesture of something flying away and disappearing. They went over to Jorge‚ who was kneeling‚ motionless‚ his face buried in the bedclothes.
‘Jorge‚’ said Sebastião softly.
Jorge raised a disfigured‚ suddenly aged face‚ his hair falling into his eyes‚ which were encircled by dark shadows.
‘Come along‚’ said Julião. And seeing the look of horror in his eyes‚ he added: ‘No‚ no‚ she’s not dead‚ she’s in the same torpor as before. Come with me.’
Jorge got up‚ saying meekly:
‘Yes‚ all right‚ I’ll come. I’m all right. Thank you.’
And he left the bedroom.
The Councillor stood up and solemnly embraced him.
‘Here I am‚ dear Jorge!’
‘Thank you‚ Councillor‚ thank you.’
He took a few steps about the room; his eyes seemed to linger on a package that lay on the table; he went over and touched it; he undid the ends and saw Luiza’s hair. He stood staring at it‚ picking it up and drawing it through his hands‚ and then‚ his lips trembling‚ he said:
‘She took such pride in her hair‚ poor love!’
He went back into the bedroom. But Julião took his arm and tried to keep him away from the bed. He struggled half- heartedly and‚ seeing a candle burning on the bedside table‚ he pointed to it and said:
‘Perhaps the light is troubling her…’
Moved‚ Julião replied:
‘She can’t see it now‚ Jorge!’
Jorge freed himself from Julião’s grip and bent over her; he took her head in his hands‚ carefully‚ so as not to hurt her‚ and looked at her for a moment; then he placed a kiss on her cold lips‚ and another‚ and another‚ murmuring:
‘Goodbye! Goodbye!’
Then he stood up‚ flung his arms wide and fell to the floor.
Everyone ran to help him. They carried him to the chaise longue.
And while Dona Felicidade‚ weeping bitterly‚ was closing Luiza’s eyes‚ the Councillor‚ his hat still in his hand‚ was folding his arms‚ shaking his respectable pate and saying to Sebastião:
‘A grievous loss to us all!’